


Interludes

by obstinate_as_an_allegory



Series: Troublesome Witness [6]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: short scenes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2018-12-21 23:53:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11955357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinate_as_an_allegory/pseuds/obstinate_as_an_allegory
Summary: Jacques barely looks at her, and doesn’t know her at all. How could he begin to fathom what she has chosen to do with her afternoon?Some short and mostly trivial scenes from the 'Troublesome Witness' series.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There will be roughly four of these - just a handful of scenes scattered across the series. 
> 
> First up - after 'Troublesome Witness' and before 'Friends in High Places,' the musketeers and Constance practice shooting one afternoon in the Bois du Boulogne.

 

The morning’s rain has made the grass soggy, and Constance’s skirts are damp nearly to the knee, a tide mark on the fabric. How will she explain it to Jacques, she wonders for a moment, but then laughs at herself with some bitterness, but more relief. Jacques barely looks at her, and doesn’t _know_ her at all. How could he begin to fathom what she has chosen to do with her afternoon? 

There’s a loud thud, as d’Artagnan – with considerable flourish – throws his main gauche into the bark of a broad oak tree. She wants to raise an eyebrow at his theatrics, but is just too charmed by it, can’t stop smiling to give him the sceptical look he deserves. Porthos walks up to him and says slyly, ‘Be embarrassing if you can’t get it out again.’ He hangs the ‘target’ over the handle of the dagger. It is an old, flattened piece of saddle leather on which d’Artagnan has drawn concentric circles in slightly wobbly chalk.

‘It’ll do,’ Athos murmurs, mostly hidden by his hat but clearly amused. He bends carefully to prop the two arquebuses he’s carrying against a tree.

‘That centre circle is rather large, though. And somewhat… pear-shaped.’

Aramis has been told in no uncertain terms that he’s not carrying anything or doing anything strenuous on this afternoon’s endeavour. The damage to his shoulder incurred in a confrontation with a Spanish spymaster is no longer a great concern, but the flesh there is fragile, still healing. A flimsy sling is looped around the arm, mostly as a reminder that he’s not supposed to be using it.

 ‘ _You_ try drawing a perfect circle on that,’ d’Artagnan says peevishly.

‘I’d have drawn a portrait of Richelieu,’ Porthos remarks.

‘I think it looks rather like him anyway,’ says Aramis. 

‘Thank you, yes, if I needed _comedians_ I’d have gone elsewhere,’ Constance says, and then feels slightly flustered at her own boldness. But Athos’ smirk is closer to an actual smile than she has ever seen it, so she tells herself not to worry about it.

‘Fifteen paces,’ Aramis says, judging the distance with a squinting glance rather than measuring it out. ‘We have twenty fresh musket balls, and forty old ones. We’ll start with the old ones – not so accurate, but we can refine your aim later.’

‘Old ones?’

‘He picks ‘em up after training, gives ‘em to new recruits in place of the proper ones,’ Porthos explains. ‘Makes their aim godawful.’

‘Two lessons in one,’ says Aramis, grinning. ‘Frugality and humility.’

‘No one’s aim is any good with a re-used ball,’ d’Artagnan says, now lounging on the ground at the base of the tree next to the two primed weapons. ‘They lose their shape, and they don’t fly straight.’

Aramis looks so smug at this that Constance knows the answer already. She sighs. ‘I suppose you’re the exception.’

‘My aim is _less_ good with a re-used ball,’ Aramis concedes.

‘You ain’t firing anything today,’ Porthos tells him in a tone that invites no argument. ‘Rebound’s no joke with a hurt shoulder.’

Aramis nods vaguely, rolling the shoulder with a careful motion. It must still be tender; a week ago it was still spotting red through a bandage and he couldn’t move the joint at all.

Constance feels a little nervous – she’s strong, the notion that seamstresses are delicate is a nonsense in her experience; reams of fabric are heavy, cumbersome things to shift around. But she’s still much weaker physically than any of the musketeers, and she knows from frantic experience that the rebound on a pistol can be shocking. Those arquebuses are much bigger than anything she’s fired before. 

D’Artagnan passes one of the weapons up to her. It’s a little heavier than she expected, but she grips it carefully. Aramis murmurs advice, standing a few feet away and assessing her position with a shrewd gaze. The hand supporting the barrel shakes a little at the weight, she’s not sure how to hold it steady. He steps closer, adjusts the angle of her arm with his good hand, then nods and steps back.

‘When you’re ready. Be gentle on the trigger, and try to keep your shoulders relaxed.’

The retort is deafening, and the rebound startles her despite all her efforts to be prepared. The target appears to be entirely unmarked, and she huffs a little. Patience was never her greatest virtue. Porthos takes the weapon from her and hands it to d’Artagnan for reloading; Athos and Aramis have strolled over to the target to discern where the shot went. After a moment, Athoss finds it, pointing to a scar in the tree bark six inches above the top of the target. 

‘Here,’ he grunts, and Aramis nods sagely.

‘You pulled up when you fired. It’s a common enough error.’

Constance feels a little deflated.

‘Much better than d’Artagnan’s first try,’ Aramis adds, grinning.

‘You lying bastard,’ d’Artagnan says mildly, and Constance gives him an eyebrows-raised look. ‘Well, exaggerating bastard,’ he amends.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which d’Art is an easy mark, Porthos has a great poker face, and Aramis doesn’t lend out his poetry books

‘Oy-oy,’ Porthos says softly, and Aramis blinks, looking up from the pistols he is cleaning to follow his friend’s gaze. D’Artagnan is just coming through the gate, and his habitual swagger is considerably more pronounced than usual. Porthos looks vastly amused. ‘How’s Constance?’ he calls, when d’Artagnan is halfway across the yard.

D’Artagnan stops, looking a little taken aback. ‘She’s fine. How - how do you know I was with Constance?’

Porthos shrugs innocently. Aramis, knowing his own poker face is less reliable, turns his attention back to the oily rag and the pieces of his pistol.

‘Alright, well. I did see her today but it wasn’t _planned_.’

The expression Porthos is wearing is a very familiar one to Aramis; it says ‘sure, if you say so’ but also ‘you are full of shit.’ D’Artagnan sits down rather heavily on the bench opposite and heaves a sigh like a lover in a sonnet. The comparison strikes Aramis as both appropriate and painfully misattributed and he can’t contain a soft snort. D’Artagnan hears it and every nerve in him goes taut with indignation; he glares at them, one after another, and Aramis tries to keep his expression neutral. He partially succeeds. Eventually, d’Artagnan says, ‘What?’

‘Nothing at all. Where did this fortunate meeting take place? I had heard you were patrolling the Tuileries.’

‘What did you say to her?’ Porthos cuts in. ‘How’s the poetry coming?’ Aramis has to duck his face behind his hands. It’s not that the by-now long-running ‘d’Artagnan writes poetry for Constance’ joke is all that funny in itself, but d’Artagnan’s undiminished irritation with the said joke actually gets funnier every time. Across the table, he bristles like a wet cat.

‘I don’t – Constance doesn’t even – well, she’s never said she even – likes poetry; who reads poetry anyway…’

‘I once heard her say she was fond of Ronsard,’ Aramis says, without emerging from behind his hands. D’Artagnan gives him a look equal parts sceptical and furious.

‘ _When_ did she say so?’

He is obliged to pause before answering to quell his laughter. ‘I – don’t recall.’

‘Musta been two weeks ago. Think she mentioned it to me as well,’ Porthos says, much more composed, nodding sagely.

‘I don’t –‘ D’Artagnan looks at Aramis, narrows his eyes, looks at Porthos, and seems to struggle with his conviction. ‘You’re making it up,’ he says, uncertain.

Porthos’ expression is innocent and faintly wounded that d’Artagnan would suggest such a thing. He’s a wonderful actor, Aramis thinks, impressed. It comes of being such a skilled gambler. Aramis himself is damaging the integrity of this joke by being unable to control his expression.

‘Just thought you’d want to know. Pretty sure Aramis has a copy of the _Amours de Cassandre_ , if you wanted to, you know, pick up some ideas.’

As it happens, he does have a copy, but there is an inscription on the flyleaf of a rather intimate nature, and he’d hesitate to lend it out, even to a close friend. The lady who gave it to him, after all, did not write a message like that for it to be passed around the garrison. Porthos, of course, knows this – only because he witnessed Aramis’ expression when he first read it.

‘Might make you feel more creative or something,’ Porthos prompts, still managing to sound earnestly helpful.

‘Fuck off,’ d’Artagnan says, luckily. ‘I’m not – we’re not like – poetry isn’t…’

‘No need to be defensive,’ Porthos cautions him. D’Artagnan shoves both hands through his hair in frustration.

‘I’m _not_ defensive, what I’m trying to say…’

Aramis, by this point, has had to bury his face entirely in his folded arms on the table. Behind him, Athos’ voice says wearily, ‘Are you winding d’Artagnan up again?’ There’s a brief pause before Porthos’ booming laugh rings out, and he finally dares to surface. ‘Don’t antagonise him, gentlemen; someone will lose an eye,’ Athos adds lazily.

D’Artagnan slumps back. ‘Oh alright. Yeah, alright, you nearly got me that time.’

‘Porthos is a gifted liar,’ Aramis offers, meaning it both as a consolation to d’Artagnan and a heartfelt tribute to Porthos, who looks back at him with a stunning grin.

‘Yeah,’ d’Artagnan agrees. ‘ _You_ I never believed for a second.’

He raises both palms in acknowledgement.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dinner invitation

The street is going to mud outside the garrison; this morning’s rain all churned up by a long day of horses and delivery carts coming and going. Porthos has new boots and no desire to ruin them so soon – all boots, he knows from weary experience, get ruined eventually, normally the same week they stop giving you blisters – so he skirts the very edge of the road, skipping delicately from one dry patch to another and grateful that nobody’s by to mock him for it.

When he reaches the gate he realises there was a witness after all – Constance Bonacieux is just leaving the yard, buckling a satchel as she walks. He tips a small bow to her, and she relaxes, smiling.

‘I was just dropping off an order for Captain Treville,’ she says. ‘I was surprised to see none of you about.’

There are several musketeers milling around the courtyard, so by ‘none of you,’ Constance must mean his three closest friends.

‘They got the late patrol,’ he explains. ‘D’Artagnan’ll be sore to have missed you.’

Her expression twitches with a complicated mix of pleasure and regret, and Porthos feels an unexpected tug of emotion. He’s not so soft as Aramis over this kind of thing, but it’s a damn shame how things turned out with Constance and d’Artagnan. A damn shame for a woman like this to be saddled with a twit for a husband.

‘Are you well, Constance?’ he asks, a little awkwardly.

 ‘Well enough,’ she says, but she looks tired. ‘My husband is preparing to travel, for business. He says the prices are better, outside Paris…’ She trails off, looking a little embarrassed, and he tries harder to look interested.

‘Will you go with him?’

‘No,’ she says quickly. ‘No, I…. I will take care of things here, while he…’ She trails off again, visibly perking up. ‘I will be home alone, as it happens, for four days next week. Perhaps – would you and the others like to come for dinner?’

He blinks a few times, feels his cheeks warming and realises that he is, of all things, _blushing_.

‘We don’t get a lot of invitations as good as that,’ he says, letting his grin crack wide.

‘It won’t be so good as you’re used to,’ she cautions, and he can’t help laughing.

‘We’re used to the _worst_ cooking in Paris; soldiers will eat anything.’

She laughs at that, and bids him a warm goodbye before picking up her skirts and edging around the mud to start home.

 

 

He has to tell d’Artagnan about the invitation four times before he’ll believe it isn’t a practical joke.

  

 

The afternoon before the planned dinner party, Porthos is napping, having been on duty all the previous night, and awoken by a quiet but insistent knock on his door.

‘Yeah,’ he groans, and Athos steps in, revealing Aramis loitering in the hallway behind him.

‘What wine do you have?’ he demands – not loudly, or harshly, but from Athos damn near everything sounds like a demand.

 ‘What?’ 

‘Mine is all substandard, it transpires,’ Aramis calls from the doorway, scratching at the back of his hair and making it a worse mess than usual.

 ‘Wine,’ Athos says, as though this is all natural and obvious. ‘Constance has invited us to dinner. Do you want her to think we were raised in a barnyard?’

‘D’Artagnan _was_ raised in a barnyard,’ Aramis says helpfully. Athos ignores him, squinting at the contents of Porthos’ small cupboard.

Resigned to the idea that his nap is over, Porthos sits up, rubbing his eyes. ‘Haven’t you got anything decent?’ he asks Athos’ back.

Athos is holding a bottle in the light from the window to check its colour. He shakes his head absently. ‘Nothing good enough for the occasion,’ he says, and by his standards it sounds very sincere. Athos has some funny ideas about etiquette – he’d deny having aristocratic sensibilities, but clearly a lot of that stuff is hard to shake off. Still, there can’t be a lot of Comtes – even former Comtes – who would make this much fuss about a dinner invitation from a draper’s wife. ‘This is appalling, Porthos, were you planning to drink it or use it to clean the floor?’

 ‘As if you’d know the difference after a bottle or two,’ he replies mildly, and gets ignored. He exchanges a smirk with Aramis, who is still lounging in the doorway, clearly enjoying this whole spectacle.

Athos sighs, screws up his face, and huffs in irritation. ‘I’ll go to the Place des Vosges,’ he says tightly.

Porthos stands quickly. He remembers what nearly happened the last time the merchant in the Place des Vosges tried to swindle Athos. ‘I’ll come with you. Gimme a moment to get my boots.’

 


End file.
